#MORE F1 RPF

[ellearts]

HAPPY NEW YEAR BOLDOG UJEVET BUEK TO MORE F1 AGE GAP YAOI RPF HELLY EAH!!!!!!!!!

[leclerity]

stupid gets you killed

Charles Leclerc x Girlfriend!Reader count: 1.1k words summary: Charles and you have an emotional conversation after his reckless driving at a race. a/n: a short but angsty one, with a happy ending!

It could’ve been the end.

The way it felt, it almost was.

You watch as the red of the Ferrari and the green of the Aston Martin come close, inches apart, with Stroll nearly putting it in the back of your boyfriend’s car. Everyone around you gasps and for a split second, you see them touch and Charles’s car fly off into the grandstands – but that doesn’t happen. They don’t touch. Charles drives away unscathed, though you know that won’t be the end of it.

“That was too close,” says Arthur, shaking his head at the screen.

“He won’t like this too much,” you say and grab a pair of headphones lying around, listening in.

Everything is okay with the car, Bryan Bozzi says.

That was not okay! Charles screams. Who does he think he is?! Driving like an idiot… He should know better!

Keep your head calm, you’ve got forty laps to go.

You take off the headphones and tell Arthur what you just overheard. He shakes his head again, but you both know there’s nothing the two of you can do about it. Charles has been under pressure, ready to burst at any given moment, running second in the championship with maybe—maybe—a chance at something more. Anything that threatens it… Well, it throws him off.

You’re just waiting for the moment it happens.

The race keeps running, you listen in to the radio every so often, and his complaints and agitation are getting more obvious. He’s driving riskier, not caring enough about tyre management, and there’s a few moments when his car gets a little too close to another car.

He finishes in fourth. It’s not where he wanted to be but it’s better than out of the race, you tell yourself. There was a few moments where you held your breath, waiting to see if the anger is going to slip into careless mistakes, and it made you angry. Your boyfriend is better than this.

When he finishes the race, you run straight into his arms. “You did so well! I’m proud of you.”

“I could’ve done better,” he says.

“I know,” you say, and kiss him again. “Next time.”

Charles kisses you, too, before going to speak to others in the garage, keeping one eye on you at all times. You know he’s being hard on himself, but you see his clenched jaw, sunken shoulders, and you know this is going to be a tougher one than usual.

He’s in your orbit the most of the evening, glancing at you even when he’s in the media pen. You can hear some of the questions he’s being asked and a lot of them are about the incident and about his dangerous driving he nearly got a penalty for, and you can already hear the regret in his voice. He looks at you every time it comes up, as if he already knows how much it upset you.

At your side, Arthur gives you a nudge. “Are you going to talk some sense into him when you’re back at the hotel?”

“Maybe. I haven’t decided yet.”

“That was scary.”

You nod. “Too scary. I get the pressure and all, but…”

“Yeah,” Arthur says, “I don’t want to feel like I might lose my brother because he’s being angry and stupid.”

When you get home, you get dinner – he does the perfunctory celebrations and goes back to the hotel, where you’re waiting with him with your guys’ favourite takeaway. He had some time to hang out with the other drivers and now it’s time to hang out with you… But not before you give him a piece of mind.

He knows something’s wrong the moment he enters the hotel room.

“Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” you say.

He frowns. “Okay. You sure?”

You give him a long look.

Charles sits down next to you, looking exhausted but ready to devour the food – but he doesn’t. Instead, he sits with his elbows on his knees, hands held together. “It’s the race.”

“Mhm.”

“That’s why you’re giving me attitude.”

“Mhm.”

“Is it because of the Stroll incident?”

You shake your head. He should know better and he does, it will just take him a moment.

He sighs and leans into the couch, a defeated look on his face. “I should’ve handled it better, right?”

“Yeah.” You put a hand on his thigh. “Driving like that, Charles… You could’ve gotten hurt.”

“I would’ve been fine.”

“You don’t know that!”

“Babe—”

“Don’t babe me,” you say, shaking your head. “You got angry and…. Anger makes you stupid. Stupid gets you killed.”

Charles opens his mouth and closes it, knowing fair well that there’s nothing he could say in his defence that would make you change your mind. He sees it all on your face, you know it – the terror you’d gone through waiting to see if his anger will make him slip up, make a mistake; the threat of losing him.

He takes your hand in his and kisses the back of it, before placing it on his chest, right where his heart is. “Y/N,” he says, gently. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have let my anger get the best of me.”

“I just… I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“I know.”

“It frightens me.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“I just—The thought of you—”

“I know. C’mere.”

Charles gives your hand a gentle tug and then your head is on his chest and his arms are wrapped around you, keeping you warm and safe. “I’m sorry for scaring you. My job is scary, but I shouldn’t make it any more difficult than it already is.”

He kisses the top of your head and you feel a few tears escaping down your cheeks, and he holds you even tighter.

“I’ll be less angry next time, I promise,” he whispers. “Less stupid. For you. Okay?”

You nod instead of answering, and he pulls your chin up with a gentle finger, and then he’s wiping your tears and kissing you gently, promising over and over again to never make you feel like that again – and he doesn’t.

[once-and-future-loser]

It's about time people realize the duality of man. Max "Media and entertainment interests are overly invasive, please respect my privacy" Verstappen and Daniel "do I really have to talk to the media after my awful race" Ricciardo are the same people as Max "I will reference a gay dating app and literally take off my shirt and pull down my pants on camera as long as is on my terms" Verstappen and Daniel "I will make a RPF headphone and ugly T-shirt advertisement with a football player I'm obsessed with" Ricciardo. Honestly. Someone help them.

[ctimenefic]

i’m obsessed w ur mean dom george and his boy scout knots, even more so w the events of this weekend and the weird amount of flirting him and max have been doing recently!! i could totally be barking up the wrong tree with gax vibes but they have been really fun this year

Okay forgive me nonny for typing directly into the answer box, the typos will be horrendous, but I'm in a tiny french café right now and unfortunately dom george gax has seized my mind so:

Max Verstappen propping up the VIP bar at the Bellagio is not George's problem at 9.04 on Monday, when his hangover is beating a tattoo between his eyebrows that even his largest pair of sunglasses can't hide. His GPDA hours are strictly 9-5, Wednesday through Sunday. On Mondays, he gets peace, he gets quiet, he gets to order precisely one hair of the dog Bloody Mary and crunch through the celery in private.

Max orders another gin and tonic without tearing his eyes from the door, and George sighs.

He'd texted himself, last night, somewhere between the first club and the second. Assumed, naturally, that Danny's one-man tour of the US would have to hit Vegas for Max's fourth, even if he was conspicuously absent from the race itself. But when he checks now, there's still no reply.

His "G'morning" rumbles out, frightfully inarticulate, throat still whisky-burnt. Max spares him a bleary glance.

"Is it?" He sounds dopey drunk. His mouth looks sticky. George's mum loves a G&T too; she used to tuck him in at night, suddenly fond and warm and cuddly, and the smell would tickle his nose, comforting and disorienting in equal measure. It's never the gin that lingers, always the lime and the lemon. Max should switch to Hendricks, with its cucumber twist. It would suit him better.

"Are you staying here?" he asks. Max blinks, makes a nod that's half a shrug. Good enough. "Are you packed? When's your flight?"

"It's my plane," Max says mulishly, like he hasn't got at least three friends - or maybe it should be colleagues at this point - booked in for AirMax. Not George, of course. George is travelling with Toto. He's quite looking forward to it, ten hours in quiet approval, thumbing through The Times on an iPad, starting from the Sport section.

He doesn't bother pointing out the obvious, but he does allow himself a couple of disapproving tuts. It's surprising when Max's shoulders curl, slightly, a flush crawling up from under the collar of his hideous team jacket.

George checks his watch. He's got time, he supposes, to play the good Samaritan.

(When Max's red eyes flick back to the door, he thinks he might've done it anyway, his fifteen minute buffer be damned)

"Let's get you to bed, then, shall we?" It doesn't take much to haul Max upright. They're all easy enough to throw about, if you've got the strength. But he's not expecting Max to tuck into his side, nod into his shoulder and chest.

He manoeuvres them both to the lifts with minimal interruption, which is a relief. Max is more pliable than at the bar, but practically useless. He's on one of the keycard-only floors, because of course he is, four time champ and maddeningly casual about it. George has to rummage through his pockets for it; Max makes an insultingly shocked noise when George slides long fingers into the front pocket of his jeans. "Don't get excited," he scolds.

Something twitches under his fingertips. The firm hard line of the keycard is nudged into his grip.

George raises his eyebrows, tilts his chin, and turns to tap it, secure their no-stop ride through a ludicrous number of floors.

Then he spins back, and Max's inordinately large mouth is fastened to his jaw.

Detaching him takes some effort. "We are going to bed," Max argues, as George cranes his neck away.

The lifts had seemed too big before, American big, a fun house of mirrors exaggerating the gilt and gaud of it all. Now he could do with a couple of square miles more between him and the drunk determined look in Max's eye.

He's looking straight at George, but not like he's ever looked at him before. There's nothing to recognise in those eyes.

("I saw Max in the bar," he'll tell media in three days, a wry smirk on like cheap perfume. "But he didn't see me." And then he'll get the recognition he wants, surprise and a flicker of heat, quickly doused. A bit mean, to do it for the cameras. But he'll know by then, that Max likes it mean.)

"No," he says now. He fits his hand across Max's chest, between the swell of his pecs. Palm against his sternum, thumb and fingertips pressed to his collarbones. The span of it makes Max look small. His eyes have gone lidded.

"No," he says again, and presses firmly. Max is lax against the mirrored wall, mouth still open. Drunk, but neither of them are passing a sobriety test right now. George's driver is probably getting a coffee right now, checking the time. George won't make him wait. He's considerate like that.

Four floors zip by in quick succession.

"Not until I say," he tells Max, firm. Forgiving.

He steps into Max's space slowly. Makes him wait, straining against the pressure of George's hand, until he deigns to lean down and lick into that gin-sour mouth.

Max is sloppy, uncoordinated. George keeps his hand where it is but lets Max grab at his waist, his arse. He grinds like a puppy when George slips a thigh between his, but his dick's either even smaller than the paddock gossip says, or suffering from one too many doubles.

It doesn't matter. It's always been enough for George to be wanted. To grant, or withhold.

It doesn't even sting now, when they're surprised to want him. All of his victories will always be a shock.

He stops Max from straying up his jawline or down his neck. He doesn't want to spend his flight sticky, grime against the prickle of a fresh shave. Keeps it to kissing, a light nip at Max's bee-stung bottom lip when he gets pushy.

He's got one eye on the dial, though, so when the door opens on Max's floor, with its implausible colonnade, George has stepped back, just a friendly finger and thumb holding Max's chin. The blue of his irises has almost disappeared behind the black of his pupil.

"Bed," George orders, sharp, and Max stumbles out with more speed than George thinks he'd get sober. Sober Max would fight all the way down; it'd take hours to get him sweet. It'd be time well spent.

He follows at his own pace, pleased to see Max holding the door open for him, hands shoved deep into his pockets in a poor show of casualness. It's lost the second George steps inside and Max is on him again, fingers scrabbling to pull George's shirt out of his pressed slacks.

When he pushes Max off this time, he wraps his hand against the base of his throat. Squeezes, just a little.

"Shirt. Jeans. Off. Bed," he orders, clipped and quiet. Max looks delightful when they hit home, stunned and open and young. George quite badly wants to put his thumb on Max's tongue, watch him drool around it. But he's being good; he's got a plane to catch. He holds himself still for the clumsy minutes it takes Max to comply, waits until Max is flat on the bed, duvet kicked down to the foot of the bed.

Bless him, he's still soft in his boxers. But his face is enough for George to know.

Daniel had liked it too, when George had put him on his back and told him to stay still. That cocky grin wiped off his face for a long minute, brown eyes blown wide. Maybe that's their problem, Max and Danny. No one to give the orders.

He allows himself just this: a trail of fingers, up the length of Max's leg, over the meat of his thigh, the softness of his stomach. A flick against a hard nipple, and a light chuckle at the full body jerk Max makes under him.

And then, with a flourish worthy of a Vegas magician, he yanks the duvet up to Max's neck. "Sleep it off, you madman."

Max's fury is a series of choked, inarticulate noises George would relish extracting in other circumstances. Luckily, Max has not regained any of his mobility; he fights against the duvet, but George has easily enough time to tuck himself up against his waistband, hidden by the fall of his trousers, and make it to the door.

"Congratulations again," he throws back, before it closes behind him. He finds he means it.

He's on the pavement, monogrammed carry on in hand, just as his driver pulls up. He makes a note to tell Alex, with some elisions. He could use a reminder of the value of punctuality.

There's a sign on the freeway, just before the airport. "What happens in..." and so on. Somehow, he's not convinced Max will see it that way come Qatar. But-

It lingers, the sight of Max's face. Not spitting angry, or dumb with lust, the need to submit. But tired and empty and hopeful nonetheless, eyes fixed on the entrance of the bar.

Disappointed not to see you in Vegas, he texts Daniel as Toto and Susie settle in opposite him. You should make it up to me.

That, Danny replies to.

to my winner? 👅👅💦

Yes, George types. Both of us.

[sillystappen]

The way i wanna psychoanalyse a whole load of drivers and see how they think and what makes their brain tick is not normal and thats why I write fanfiction.

(I actually have a list - not in tags - of things I wanna know and would ask the drivers and whose brain I wanna pick apart and they are in order)

[mrs-saturday]

♡ GR63 Smut Headcanons

♥ my masterlist!

♥ pairing: george russell x reader

♥ synopsis: smutty GR63 headcanons for the soul x

♥ warnings: smut, mommy kink George is back, brief pregnancy mentions

♥ a/n: a response to this request from my angel <3 I hope they live up to your expectations ml!

♡ George is such a switch. A good race result and all he wants is to fuck his pretty princess silly, but after a bad race, he just wants to have his girl tell him how much of a good boy he is

୨୧ whenever he’s feeling a little more on the dom side, he likes to cover your neck in little bruises and love bites

“All mine, darling” he sighs into the purple flesh of your neck, looking up into the mirror in front of you both, fingers tracing the bruises that litter your skin. “Like I’ve planted a flower garden here, all for you Princess”

♡ speaking of, G loves mirror sex, and not JUST to look at himself shirtless. He just likes to see how easily you fall apart for him 

୨୧ but when he’s in subspace, boy is he the whiniest little boy. He’s so vocal about how desperate he is for you and your touch

♡ and it definitely gets him in trouble sometimes, especially if Lewis can hear it through the walls of the Mercedes driver rooms

‘G, man, the whole paddock can hear that shit.” Lewis groans, tossing his head back “Good to hear you and Y/N are so open to less conventional sex” George is sat with a bright red face, stuttering, which elicits a laugh from both Lewis and yourself 

୨୧ he has a bit of a mommy kink, he just loves loves loves when you dote on his, hands roaming all over his body, looking after his needs

♡ he really REALLY wants to put a baby in you. He loves the feeling of finishing inside you, then using himself as lube for round two.

୨୧ as well as that, he loves going down on you after sex, after all, what sort of gentleman would he be if he didn’t clean you up?

♡ the second he finds out you’re pregnant, however, he puts a stop to any kinky rough sex for the foreseeable, he would be SUPER worried about hurting the baby

୨୧ he’s generally very careful during sex, always whispering little “is this okay, my love?” and “does it hurt, darling?”

♡ an aftercare GOD. this man has water in the fridge, towels being warmed and a hot bath running for you the second you’re both done with a post-sex cuddle

୨୧ and he loves your aftercare too, he enjoys that you look after him after a particularly intense bout in subspace

♡ G’s favourite thing about you is your legs, he could spend all day kissing up them, kissing your thighs and telling you what a goddess you are

୨୧ despite having a mommy kink’, he’d prefer sir to daddy

♡ Ties as bondages always turn him on୨୧ or as a gag, tied in a pretty bow at the back for his pretty girl, just to keep you hush-hush

[wisteriagoesvroom]

"i am not seeing the landoscar vision this year–" bro imma stop you there. was rome built in a day. are we or are we not collectively insane enough to ship whatever we want. other fandom ships have literally been pieced together with twigs. powered by fumes. launched via the tiniest scraps of barest interaction in canon. you do not need more acorns to last the cold season, we in fact have a store of them right under the trapdoor here and the party is still going. you must believe in the power of your imagination, of your delusion, if you are to last this winter season of (dis)content. you must light your candles and believe. we defy the odds that are stacked against us (FIA said no more mclaren unboxed). for one day the sun will shine again (mclaren double podium). and we will stand in the blinding light (tumblr dashboard) knowing that we were the few devoted (insane) enough to hold up the banner and cry "ONE NATION UNDER PAPAYA TWINK RPF!"

[fast-burn]

day 13: free use for winter warmers, maxiel, explicit, 1k

If it's a race weekend, there is a whole protocol involved. There are schedules to cross-reference and inconspicuous paths to travel around the back of the paddock. They have to do it out of sight, tucked away in someone's driver's room. Even if the media is expressly forbidden from publishing any pictures, the track is still always crawling with fans who all have cinema-quality cameras on their phones.

At the factory, it's easier.

Max can push Daniel down between his knees, under the table at some boring meeting, and everyone just politely averts their eyes. He can have Daniel in the little office space they've set aside for him to take Zoom calls, or in the middle of the cafeteria, or on top of the RB19 if he wants. Or like now, after another hundred laps in the sim when he's groggy and his eyes are practically square from staring at the data all day.

He catches Daniel's wrist before he can walk past for a coffee break and tugs him until he stumbles and sprawls into Max's lap.

"Max," Daniel complains, echoing GP across the room.

"What? I just need a little pick-me-up." He's already stiffening in his pants. He can usually hold off, but the beauty of this arrangement and of being at home base is that he doesn't have to. That's the deal.

GP looks at his watch. "Alright, we'll take twenty minutes then, instead of ten." There are mutters of agreement, and most people wander off for caffeine and a piss. Daniel starts unbuttoning.

"You're a naughty boy," teases Daniel, eyes twinkling as he shoves his jeans down with his underwear, just enough to expose himself. "Insatiable today. What is this, the third go?"

Max doesn't answer that, just leans forward in his seat and kisses Daniel. There's no language in Daniel's contract about it--the one thing that Daniel doesn't have to give Max, but does anyways. When Max reaches around, Daniel's hole is puffy and hot. Daniel sighs and deepens their kiss, tilting his head and licking into Max's mouth. Max presses his middle and ring finger inside Daniel. He thrusts them a little, curls them, then uses the leverage to encourage him up so he's balanced on the frame of the sim rig, right where Max wants him.

Lube and come slick Max's fingers as he draws them out, leftover from the tail-end of lunch. Daniel's mouth is shiny with spit when he finally leans back enough that Max can pull out his dick. And then Daniel sits right down on it.

Max hisses at the sudden tight heat, can't help but thrust up, hips colliding with the tight muscle of Daniel's cheeks, and then he can't stop. The movement of his cock fucking in and out sounds squishy, sloppy, like Daniel is just a fleshlight that Max has been jizzing into all day. Which. Isn't far off the mark.

"Is it gonna hurt your feelings if I can't come this time?" Daniel asks him, rocking in-rhythm to Max's desperate pounding.

"Yes. No, you," Max gasps, "I think. I think you can."

"Nuh-uh," Daniel murmurs and brings Max's hand to his soft dick. "Here, feel."

Max groans, "Daniel please."

Daniel shakes his head. "You can beg all you want, but I'm fucked out."

It's not fair. If their positions were switched, Max could come all day long if Daniel wanted it. He could just leak like a faucet, dribbling and wetting his clothes with it and everywhere he sat down and everything he touched. There would be no end to it.

Max shifts his hips, thrusts up at an angle that he knows will drag the head of his dick against Daniel's prostate.

"Oh, oh," Daniel groans and Max beams. He feels Daniel throb in his hand.

"See? You can come."

"Nah, don't think so." He leans down and licks up Max's neck, sucks on his earlobe and scrapes his teeth across it, sparks of pleasure tinging in his wake. "You're not gonna last that long, I can tell. It's okay, just use me. I'm good for it. You made me all loose."

Max clenches his abs and his fists and tries to hold on, but then Daniel kisses him again, and well. It's only natural that he climaxes, tired and besotted as he is.

"Phew, that was a pretty nice one," Daniel says as he climbs off Max's lap, grunting like an old man as he straightens his knees. Max has enough brain power to reach up and spin Daniel around, bend him over the steering wheel so at least he can see.

Daniel used to wax, which Max thought was insane behavior and told him to stop. Now he can watch his come dribble out and smear it into the whorls of dark hair around Daniel's hole. He sucks his thumb and his fingers, licks Daniel's ass and slides his tongue inside until Daniel is whining and Max can't taste anything but spit. All clean.

"Okay, I'm good," Max says, and is satisfied by the way it takes almost a full minute for Daniel to get himself organized. Daniel is hard now, but you snooze you lose.

Daniel shoves his palm in Max's face, pushing him mostly-gently back into the seat. "You maniac," he says and rubs the heel of his other hand against the bulge in his jeans. "Look what you did to me."

"I told you that you could come. Go ahead." But the rest of the team is starting to trickle back in now.

Daniel shakes his head. "Maybe I'll wait until I get home. Then you won't be able to participate."

He won't, though. Max is sure of it, that Daniel will corner him on the way out the door at the end of the day and he'll ask for Max to watch, or to fuck him again, because he's not allowed to just take, he has to beg for it instead.

Thank god that Daniel likes this just as much as Max does.

[doomedmoth]

Formula 1 • Masterlist

Charles Leclerc

Better kind of best friend or when you fall in love with your best friend without knowing she has a boyfriend // Reader x Alexandra Saint Mleux x Charles Leclerc

Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4

Three’s a crowd or when Ferrari’s strategy threatens to fuck up more than their races // Reader x Alexandra Saint Mleux x Charles Leclerc

Daniel Ricciardo

Not fast, just furious or when Daniel starts dating a barmaid with 0 media training // Reader x Daniel Ricciardo smau

War is Over or when contracts ending means new beginnings // Reader x Daniel Ricciardo x Max Verstappen smau

Max Verstappen

War is Over or when contracts ending means new beginnings // Reader x Daniel Ricciardo x Max Verstappen smau

more to come soon 🦋

[scrollonso]

Cinnamon — Strollonso (Prologue)

The café buzzed with the usual campus chatter, the smell of coffee and pastries filling the air. Lance sat at a round table near the window, sunlight casting a soft glow on his dark hair as he absentmindedly tapped his pen against his notebook. His iced coffee sat in front of him, already half-melted, condensation pooling on the table. His brows were furrowed, lips pursed in frustration as he stared at his notes, though it was clear his mind was elsewhere.

His friends — Jessica, Esteban, Charles, and Zhou — lounged around him in varying states of relaxation. Jessica was scrolling through her phone, occasionally making comments about her latest assignment. Esteban leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, while Charles and Zhou debated the ethics paper they had due at the end of the week. But Lance wasn’t listening to any of it.

Suddenly, he broke the relative calm.

“I swear, Dr. Alonso is crazy in love with me,” he blurted out, loud enough to turn a few heads from nearby tables.

The reaction was instant. Esteban choked on his drink, coughing and spluttering as Jessica raised an eyebrow, intrigued. Charles and Zhou exchanged wide-eyed glances before Zhou burst out laughing.

“What?” Esteban finally managed to wheeze, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Like the Beyoncé song?” Zhou asked, grinning.

Charles immediately smacked the back of Zhou’s head. “Only you would be thinking about Beyoncé when Lance is in the middle of a damn schizophrenic episode.”

Jessica stifled a giggle behind her hand as Charles’ laughter grew louder. Lance scowled, narrowing his eyes at his friends.

“I’m serious,” he said, running a frustrated hand through his hair. “You don’t see the way he looks at me during lectures. The comments he makes… It’s not normal, I swear.”

Jessica leaned forward, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. “Wait, wait. Are you serious? You’re talking about the same Dr. Alonso who made us write that twenty-fucking-seven-page essay on moral philosophy last week? That Dr. Alonso?”

“Yes! I’m telling you, he’s insane,” Lance insisted. “The way he stares at me during class — it’s like I’m the only person in the room. And then he called my analysis ‘profound’ the other day, and after that, he barely looked at anyone else for the rest of the lecture.”

Zhou raised an eyebrow, skepticism etched on his face. “Or maybe he just really liked your paper? Ever think of that?”

Charles grinned mischievously, clearly enjoying the situation. “Or maybe you’ve been listening to too much Lana Del Rey.”

The others burst into laughter, and even Lance had to bite back a smile.

“Come on, Lance,” Zhou said, shaking his head. “You think our business ethics professor is crazy in love — great song, by the way — with you? Sounds like a stretch.”

Lance crossed his arms defensively, a stubborn pout on his face. “I’m not saying I WANT him to be into me,” he muttered. “I mean… okay, he’s hot. Obviously. His muscles are fucking insane, and don’t even get me started on his grey hairs—”

“Jesus Christ, Lance,” Esteban coughed, cutting him off. “Reel it in.”

Lance waved him off, trying to suppress the heat rising to his cheeks. “But there’s no way I’m imagining this. You didn’t see how flustered he got when I stayed after class to ask a question.”

Jessica smirked, leaning back in her chair. “Maybe you’re just his favorite student. I’m not sure the old man can even see well enough to think about that fat ass you’ve got.”

“Right,” Esteban chuckled. “And next, you’ll be telling us he watches Call Me By Your Name in his office while thinking about you.”

Lance tried to hide his grin, but it broke through anyway. “We are kind of Elio and Oliver coded,” he said, his tone teasing. “My dad was in one of his college classes, you know.”

“Oh my God,” Jessica groaned, laughing as she grabbed her bag. “Okay, we need to get to class before you spiral any further.”

They all stood, grabbing their things and making their way across campus toward the lecture hall.

As they entered the room, Lance’s eyes immediately sought out Dr. Alonso. He was standing at the front of the class, impeccably dressed as always, his sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms that Lance definitely shouldn’t have been looking at. But seriously, how could he resist? Especially with that gorgeous tattoo from his wrist to the bend of his arm. His sharp eyes scanned the room, pausing briefly on Lance.

Lance felt his heart skip a beat. Shit.

Jessica nudged him with her elbow, whispering, “Okay, I’m starting to see what you mean.”

Dr. Alonso cleared his throat, his voice steady and authoritative. “Good afternoon, class. Today, we’ll be discussing the complexities of moral relativism and its application in modern business practices.”

Lance sat at his usual spot, near the middle of the lecture hall — not too close to be suspicious, but not too far that he couldn’t see every detail of Dr. Alonso. His friends, sprawled around him, whispered quietly as they unpacked their laptops and notebooks, but Lance barely registered any of it.

His eyes were fixed on him.

Dr. Alonso stood at the front, hands resting lightly on the podium. His voice flowed smoothly through the room, low and rich, with a slight accent that made every word sound infinitely more interesting. Lance tried — he really tried — to take notes, but his pen hovered uselessly above his paper.

“Lance, you’re staring,” Jessica whispered without looking up from her screen.

“I’m not—” Lance started to protest, but he cut himself off when Dr. Alonso looked up again. His gaze locked on Lance’s for just a second too long before he continued pacing in front of the whiteboard.

Lance’s heart was racing now.

He slouched in his seat, running a hand through his hair. Okay, this is fine. Totally fine. No big deal. But it was a big deal, especially when Dr. Alonso started rolling up his sleeves further, revealing more of that tattoo that Lance had definitely been fantasizing about since the semester started.

“I’m gonna lose my mind,” Lance muttered under his breath.

Esteban leaned in. “You’ve already lost it. He’s not into you. He’s grading you.”

Jessica smirked. “Yeah, but I wouldn’t mind being graded by those hands.”

“Jessica!” Lance hissed, scandalized but laughing despite himself.

Dr. Alonso clapped his hands once, drawing the class’s attention back to him. “Moral relativism often forces us to examine our own biases. What we think is right or wrong isn’t always absolute. Context matters.”

As he spoke, he moved toward the side of the room, his gaze sweeping across the students. But once again, his eyes returned to Lance, who quickly averted his own.

Jessica snickered quietly. “He totally just looked at you.”

“I told you,” Lance whispered, feeling vindicated but also panicked. “It’s not in my head.”

Charles leaned across the aisle. “If he starts quoting Lana Del Rey lyrics, I’m walking out.”

Zhou stifled a laugh. “He’s gonna give Lance an A and write ‘young and in love’ in the margins.”

Lance shook his head, trying to focus on the lecture, but it was impossible. Every glance, every subtle shift in Dr. Alonso’s expression, felt like a secret message just for him.

Toward the end of class, Dr. Alonso leaned against the desk at the front, arms folded. His voice softened slightly. “Remember, what we perceive as ethical may change based on who we’re dealing with. Relationships, power dynamics… they all affect our judgment.”

Lance nearly choked on air.

Jessica’s eyes widened. “Okay, that sounded personal.”

“Am I hallucinating?” Lance whispered, sticking the tip of his tongue out and smiling as he held back a laugh. “Or is he flirting?”

Charles grinned. “If this turns into a fanfiction plot, I’m gonna scream.”

As the class wrapped up and students began packing their things, Lance stayed frozen in his seat. He was overthinking everything — every look, every word, every interaction.

“Let’s go,” Zhou nudged him.

But Lance hesitated, watching Dr. Alonso gather his papers at the front of the room. He was moving slower than usual, lingering as if waiting for something — or someone.

Jessica caught the look in Lance’s eyes and grinned. “Oh no. Don’t tell me you’re about to do the whole ‘stay after class to ask a question’ thing.”

Lance flushed. “Jess, it’s a valid strategy.”

“It’s a thirsty strategy,” Esteban teased, slinging his bag over his shoulder before blowing a kiss to his friend. “Good luck, lover boy.”

As his friends filed out of the room, Lance stood slowly, gathering his courage. He approached the desk, his heart pounding in his chest.

Dr. Alonso glanced up, his sharp eyes softening as Lance approached. “Mr. Stroll. Do you have a question?”

Lance swallowed hard, his palms sweaty. “Yeah, um… I just wanted to clarify something about the reading.”

Dr. Alonso tilted his head, watching him closely. “Which part?”

Lance struggled to remember a single thing from the reading. His mind was blank. “Uh… the part about… power dynamics?”

A faint smile tugged at the corner of Dr. Alonso’s mouth. “Power dynamics. Of course.”

There was a beat of silence, the tension between them almost palpable.

Lance licked his lips nervously. “So… is context everything?”

Dr. Alonso’s gaze flickered to his mouth, just for a second, before meeting his eyes again. “In ethics? Yes. In life? Sometimes.” He paused, leaning in slightly. “It depends on what you’re hoping to achieve.”

Lance’s breath caught in his throat. Holy shit.

“Right,” Lance managed to say, his voice a little shaky. “Got it.”

Dr. Alonso’s smile deepened, his expression unreadable. “I’ll see you next class, Mr. Stroll.”

Lance nodded quickly, grabbing his things and practically sprinting out of the room. As soon as he was in the hallway, he pressed his back against the wall, trying to catch his breath.

His friends were waiting just outside, grinning like idiots.

“So,” Jessica said, folding her arms. “Did you get your context?”

Lance ran a hand over his face, groaning. “Shut up.”

Charles laughed. “You’re so fucked.”

“No,” Lance muttered, shaking his head. “I’m definitely not imagining it.”

Next

[i-am-church-the-cat]

I have a flower shop/tattoo parlor maxiel + loscar AU building from a tropical storm into a hurricane in my head so here are some thoughts

+ When Max hires him, this is what he says to Logan’s arrangement: “It is not the worst thing I’ve ever seen. I can make it better.” What he really meant was that Max could make Logan better, but he wouldn’t come to understand that until later.

+ There’s a phone that sits on the back wall of Max’s shop. The first time it rang while Logan was working, he’d mistakenly answered it. He’d watched Max’s face go bleach white from across the shop as Logan answered “Hello, this is Verstappen’s Floral, how can I help you?” The barrage of angry Dutch he’d gotten back in return had shocked Logan into silence, making it easier for Max to steal the receiver from his hand. Now, Logan knows to just let it ring.

+ Oscar is pretty sure Daniel only gave him an interview because their moms are in a book club together. The owner of Honey Badger Tattoos was always friendly and outgoing but he was notoriously possessive about his art. In the ten years the shop has been open, it’s had four employees. Daniel Ricciardo, the founder, Daniel Kvyat, Daniel’s partner who he bought out after the first year, Lando Norris who worked part-time at the front desk, and now Oscar.

“I’ve never had an apprentice before, I probably wouldn’t be very good at it,” Daniel says during his interview. He’d said he liked Oscar’s work and already showed an interest in teaching Oscar more of his signature American style. But the guy was still hesitant, fidgeting with excess nerves. “Just ask Lando.

Lando nods from his seat at the front desk which Oscar can see from the open door of Daniel’s office. “He doesn’t know what he’s doing half the time, I wouldn’t trust him to teach other people.”

Daniel does not look like that’s the support he was going for, wincing at the dry criticism but not arguing.

“That’s fine,” Oscar confirms with a shrug. He’s already done the majority of his apprenticeship under Mark Webber. But when the man decided he’d had enough of the South of France and was selling the shop and moving back to Australia, Oscar had to look for somewhere else to work. “I only have six months left before I can get my certification.”

Daniel doesn’t look very reassured. Oscar can take a hint so he decides to get out before he’s kicked out.

“Hey, it’s cool, mate, thanks for meeting with me anyway-”

“Can you start next week?” Daniel asks, leg bouncing up and down and rocking the desk he’s sitting behind. He sees Oscar’s confused expression and sighs. “I really need more help here.”

“Yeah,” Oscar decides, not looking a gift horse in the mouth. “I’ll text you my schedule.”

And that’s how he starts working for the Honey Badger.

+ “This is a tulip,” Max is saying in French, word draw out and pointing at the multi-colored bulbs. Logan has tried telling him that he’s lived in Europe for the majority of his life at this point and can do his job in English, French, and Spanish but Max doesn’t believe him. At least Logan’s starting to pick up more Dutch.

Logan is rescued from his impromptu language lesson by the bell on the door ringing. He turns towards the sound, customer service smile already in place.

“Hi, welcome to Verstappen Floral, how can I-”

“Oh, it is you again.”

Logan stops and looks at Max who is frowning at the guy who just came in. The man is curly-haired and tanned, with tattoos scrawled over the majority of visible skin. His grin is big and toothy when he shoots it at Max.

“Hey, Maxy, aren’t you happy to see me?”

Logan blinks in shock at the nickname. Even their regular customers don’t get to act that familiar with Max. Logan doesn’t get to act that familiar with Max.

Max crosses his arms, lips pursing. “For the last time, I do not know what these flowers mean. I speak four languages and plant is not one of them.”

“Always a ray of sunshine, aren’t you, Max?” The man asks, unphased by Max’s grouchy demeanor. He leans forward onto the glass counter, certainly leaving smudges behind, but Max surprisingly doesn’t yell at him about it. “Lando sent me to pick up his order.”

Lando is someone Logan knows. He comes in about every other week and talks to Max about streaming and video games that partly goes over Logan’s head. He always leaves with a red and white bouquet, though the flowers change each time.

“Why could he not come get them himself?” Max grumbles, heading in the direction of the cooler where they kept to-go orders. Daniel shrugs and wraps his knuckles against the glass.

"He was late for a meeting or something, you know I don’t ask about his other job,” Daniel supplies. He changes his focus to Logan and the blond is met with the full force of the man’s mega-watt smile. Logan blames his mom’s genes for how easily he blushes. “Hey, you’re the new guy, right?”

Logan opens his mouth to answer but Max is suddenly im between them, Lando’s bouquet in his hands.

“Yes, this is Logan, no, he does not want any of your garish tattoos.”

Daniel pouts at Logan’s boss. He wonders how it doesn’t look strange for a guy who’s at least 30 to be pouting.

“Don’t be mean, Maxy. I wasn’t even going to mention the tattoos.”

Logan racks his brain for tattoo shops nearby. They obviously have a close relationship outside of just Lando. And Lando did say he worked for an artist…

“Oh hey, are you the Honey Badger?” Logan asks, moving his head to be seen around Max’s wider frame. Daniel jerks his eyes away from Max’s, as if he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. “I pass by there all the time. Not a lot of shops do American style out here.”

Daniel’s face lights up, looking between Logan and Max. “Max, you hired an American?”

Max sighs, more long-suffering than Logan thinks is necessary. “This is why I did not want you to speak with him. I knew you were going to be weird about it.”

“I’m not being weird!” Daniel argues. “I’m just surprised!”

Max and Daniel have another weird silent staring contest. Logan clears his throat reluctantly and they both snap to him.

“Um, where’d you learn to do that style?”

Daniel looks ready to excitedly burst into the story of his tattooing style and his interest in America, but Max cuts him off by pushing the bouquet into his chest.

“We do not have time for that, these are going to wilt. Take these to Lando.”

“Bossy, bossy,” Daniel murmurs, picking up the bouquet gently. He doesn’t sound annoyed by Max’s demands. Rather amused, actually. He shoots Logan another grin over Max’s shoulder. “I don’t envy you, mate. But hey if you want to talk tattoos, come by the shop sometime.”

“Definitely!” Logan agrees before Max can say anything else on his behalf. Daniel shoots him a one-handed finger gun before turning back to Max. His smile becomes a lot less joking and more sincere.

“See you later, Maximus”

Max loses some of his prickliness, voice soft when he says, “Goodbye, Daniel.”

+ There’s a man talking to Lando at the front desk when Oscar comes in that day. It’s neither of the two Oscar is used to seeing who come talk to Lando pretty regularly. Oscar’s pretty sure one of them’s his boyfriend and the other is his business partner but he can never tell which is which.

“Did you leave Logan alone at the shop?” Lando is asking while Oscar sets his station up.

“Well, I had to do it at some point,” the guy says, his accent reminiscent of German or Dutch. “What is the point of hiring another employee if I cannot leave for a few minutes?"

“Daniel never leaves me alone here,” Lando points out, a tad resentful. Oscar snorts.

“That’s because he has control issues,” Oscar claims. Both of the men look at him, one in amusement and one in confusion.

“Who are you?” The mystery guy asks. Weird, Oscar was going to ask him the same thing. He looks to Lando who makes the introductions.

"Max, this is Oscar, Daniel's new apprentice. Oscar, this is Max, one of our neighbors."

Oscar frowns. "I thought Max was your..." he trails off, leaving space for Lando to fill in the blank. He waves his hand.

"Different Max. This is Max Verstappen, he run's Verstappen Floral."

The new Max is still looking at him strangely. "Daniel does not take apprentices. He says he is a bad teacher."

Oscar shrugs, not sure what to tell him. He doesn't know how he got the job either. Luckily, he's saved from having to respond by Daniel coming out of the back office.

"Oscar, good, you're here, I wanted to talk about-" Daniel stops abruptly when he sees Max standing in the lobby. His entire demeanor shifts when he says, "Max, hey! What are you doing here?"

Daniel is normally a friendly guy, sometimes too much in Oscar's opinion, but he's practically glowing as he bounds over to Max. While Max's expression doesn't shift, his body language opens up to Daniel like one of his blooming flowers.

"I am talking to Lando about our stream tonight," Max answers. "He has not been very forthcoming with the details."

Lando tries to protest but even Oscar can see that it's a lost cause. This new guy showed up and suddenly it's like nothing else exists to Daniel. His boss giggles at nothing and that's when Oscar decides to get back to work.

[leclerity]

that's who i'm racing for

Charles Leclerc x Fiance!Reader count: 1k words summary: Charles and you talk before a big race, sad because you're having to call instead of sleeping in the same bed. a/n: it sounds like angst but it's mostly fluff. i promise!

If you’re not in bed, by his side, he will call you before every race. He likes to say that not hearing your voice lull him to sleep brings bad luck, and that’s the one thing he won’t risk. You’re convinced it’s just a nice little gesture, but you cherish it nonetheless.

“Baby,” Charles mumbles into the phone, looking at the camera with weary eyes. “Turn your light on. I want to see you.”

“It’s late. I’m heading to bed, too.”

“I know, but I miss your face.”

You know he can see you as well as you can see him—the light from your phones is bright enough—but you turn on your bedside lap, anyway. “Happy?”

“Much happier.” Charles shifts around until his hands are wedged under his pillow and he’s staring at the phone with a lovey-dovey smile. “I can’t believe you had to stay at home.”

“Duty calls,” you say.

“I should be your duty.”

“You will be. Soon enough.”

“Show me.”

Dutifully, you bring up your hand, moving it so that the diamond ring is visible over the camera, as butterflies fill your stomach. It’s been months, yet you’re still not used to it – you don’t think you’ll ever get used to it, it’ll just have one more ring added to it.

“Ah, I can’t wait for you to be mine,” he says.

“I’m already yours.”

“Not officially. And you’re not here.”

You turn the light off, knowing he’s seen what he wanted to see, but your smile still shows on the screen. “I know. I’ll be there for the next race, I promise.”

“The bed feels empty without you, you know,” he murmurs. “Without my fiance.”

“I’ll warm it up soon enough.”

“You better.”

You hear him playing music in the background – sometimes he does that when he can’t fall asleep, when you’re not there. Your heart tugs at its strings but there’s nothing you can do. His eyes are getting heavier, even though he’s trying to keep them open to look at you, and you can tell that he’s not far out from completely falling asleep.

You decide to take the initiative. “I’ll head to bed, I think.”

“You’re only saying that because I’m tired.”

“Maybe,” you say. “Does it make a difference?”

Charles thinks about it. “No. But I wish we didn’t have to sleep apart.”

“I know. Me too. But you need your sleep, my love.”

“I know, I know… I’d just rather be with you.”

“Me, too.”

He looks at you and you see his face soften, even with all the tiredness. His hair is messy and falling over his eyes, a far cry from how he likes to present himself, but this is how you like him best – at his most genuine, most vulnerable. Where he’s not the driver, the Monegasque, but just Charles.

Just yours.

He sighs. “Oh, what would I do to sleep in your arms tonight…”

You feel the pain in his voice as if it were your own. “I’m sorry, baby.”

“Don’t apologise. Don’t even think it’s your fault.”

The thing he won’t admit, not to himself and let alone to you—but you can see it—is the reason why he’s still up, way past his bedtime on race day. It’s almost halfway through the season and he’s doing good in the standings, and maybe Ferrari’s luck will turn for the better this year, but Lando’s right behind him and the race tomorrow has to be good if he wants things to stay this way.

The pressure is intense. You can see it in the weariness under his eyes, in the way he’s felt just a little bit aloof in the past week, especially since he landed in Spain. It breaks your heart to watch him like this and not be able to hug him, to hold him, to kiss the fear away.

So you fluff up your pillow and lie down, propping the phone up against what is usually Charles’s pillow. “We can pretend I’m there.”

“How?”

“Stay on call. Fall asleep together. I’ll hear you snoring and it’ll be like I’m there.”

“I don’t snore,” he says, but you can tell that his voice has picked up a little. “Okay. Just falling asleep?”

“Yeah. It’s late.”

You wait as he props the phone up, too, and the camera is half-covered by the pillow, but you don’t say anything. You can just about make out his hair and his eyes, even with his mouth out of sight.

He’s beautiful, no matter what, and you can’t wait to be finally his in every way that matters.

“You’re going to have an amazing race tomorrow, mon cheri.”

Charles kisses his finger then presses it to the camera, whispering sweet nothings to you in French. You feel yourself drifting off, but stay up—just in case—until you hear the familiar snoring, and you were right – it’s almost like you’re right there, right next to him.

When you close your eyes, you can still hear him snoring, and you find that you can easily pretend that you’ll touch him if you just reach over. Sleep takes you with your hand stretched out, lulled into dreams by your fiance’s snoring, and maybe the world won’t fall apart just because you’re not together.

You wake up and he’s gone, the call has ended, but there’s a text message thanking you for last night and telling you how much it helped give him a good night’s sleep, and how much he can’t wait to get back to you on Monday.

Later, some half an hour before the race, you get another text from him: 72 days until you’re mine. That’s who I’m racing for.

You clutch your phone to your chest, praying to all the gods you do and don’t believe it to keep him safe. To let him win without having to sacrifice anything. To bring him home safe, to you in one piece.

Soon enough, you’ll be lying in bed together, falling asleep with your arms wrapped around each other until it gets too hot, and just a little after that, you’ll be doing so while sharing the Leclerc name.

[ellearts]

The wolf.. and it's prey.

Full pic under the cut

Partially inspired by @no00000000 's wonderful fic, Wolfs Bane

Partially by my own delusions

[dellephone]

cat + maxcar

Max freezes when he spots Oscar in the paddock. The soft ears peeking out of his hair— surely he would be offended if Max asked to feel them. His hand twitches. He’s walking toward Oscar before he can think about it.

“Oscar.” His ears twitch. He nods toward Max, his arm makes a half-aborted motion toward his head— like he wants to hide his ears. Max wonders briefly why he only has the ears, or if that’s the only new visible part. For example, maybe a tail—. Nope. Stopping that train of thought. He fights the urge to check. Or ask. Keeps his gaze on Oscar’s.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Oscar’s expression would be almost comedic if he didn’t sound so resigned.

“They’re nice,” Max offers. He can’t stop thinking about them. They look soft. His hand twitches again. He hopes Oscar doesn’t notice.

“Thanks,” his voice is flat. Oscar gives him a look that leaves him inclined to believe he is being judged harshly, but his cheeks take on a tinge of pink.

“Can I feel them?” Fuck. Max tears his gaze away from the offending ears. "Um, sorry.” He didn’t mean to say that. He laughs shallowly, opens his mouth to say as much.

Oscar’s eyes are wide, the red now clearly spread across his face. “No it’s uh, it’s fine. I mean,” he reaches one hand up, touches the edge of his ear. Max can’t help the way his eyes trail the movement. “You can feel them.”

Max freezes, mind blank. What. “I can…” he blinks, “feel them?” Max meets Oscar’s eyes. “Are you sure?”

Oscar nods. Leans just barely toward Max.

[formulanni]

Lewis Hamilton as The Emperor Tarot:

The Emperor tarot card symbolizes the ultimate male ego and absolute ruler of the world, with a sign of sterility of regulation and unyielding power. This card is often associated with a strong sense of authority, control, and structure. It can also represent a need for order and stability in one's life. It is your hard work, discipline and self control that have bought you this far.

[bluenerdtastemaker]

We Miss You.

Esteban Ocon x Pierre Gasly x Charles Leclerc | G-rated | 8.9K

--

warning: none except Esteban name typos. I am sorry and proceed with caution cause I have lost my soul re-edit this fic already. 😭

--

One would say "Don’t give up because your dream will become reality!". But for some, they would say "Don’t give up, because everything will work out someday, even if your dream is forever dream."

--

--

Life does not always go your way, does it? Especially when your dream suddenly becomes just that—a dream, forever out of reach.

“Mr. Ocon, this is Mr. Gasly. He will be the man you will manage for the future.”

And it hurts even more when your best friend, your childhood partner-in-crime, is the one living that dream, leaving you behind to pick up the pieces.

My name is Esteban Ocon. I’m 28 years old, and I am my childhood rival's manager.

--

Esteban had long since perfected the art of masking his emotions. His handshake with Pierre was firm, professional—barely trembling.

Pierre’s familiar blue eyes sparkled, as if to say, Can you believe this? But Esteban could only force a tight smile. He already knew what Pierre would say. It was the same thing he used to say when they were kids, sitting in the stands at Le Mans, dreaming of a future together in F1.

We made it.

Except we hadn’t made it. Only one of them had.

Toto Wolff had saved Esteban. At fifteen, when his family’s caravan leaked in the rain, when his shoes had holes he couldn’t afford to patch, Toto swooped in with a promise: funding, education, a future. But even Toto couldn’t work miracles. Mercedes had no seat for him, no chance to race.

Instead, Toto gave him a job: managing Nico Rosberg. Esteban had never dreamed of this life—lugging schedules, fixing PR disasters, standing on the sidelines as others raced his dream—but it was work. It was steady. His family had a house now. His mother didn’t have to worry about dinner. For the first time, life didn’t feel like a struggle to survive.

And yet, no amount of success in his career could fill the gnawing void inside. He hated himself for the resentment that still festered, for the late nights when he stared at Pierre and Charles’s photos in their race suits, for the way their podiums felt like knives.

By 2024, Esteban Ocon was no stranger to the paddock. He wasn’t the scrappy, desperate teenager Toto Wolff had taken under his wing nearly a decade ago. He was one of the most respected managers in Formula 1, known for his sharp mind, calm demeanor, and ability to handle the most chaotic personalities.

“Gasly,” Esteban murmured, the name catching on his tongue like a thorn. His voice didn’t waver, but inwardly, his chest tightened. Of all the drivers, of all the possibilities—why Pierre?

Pierre Gasly, his childhood best friend turned distant memory. Pierre, who was supposed to be his partner in chasing their shared dream of F1. Pierre, who had made it while Esteban had been left behind, scrambling to make a name for himself in the shadows of the sport.

--

Pierre froze, champagne flute halfway to his lips, the confident smirk he wore like armor slipping just slightly. Of course, he’d heard about Esteban Ocon over the years—how could he not? The man had become one of the most sought-after managers in Formula 1. But Pierre had never imagined, not for a second, that their paths would cross like this.

And yet, here they were.

Esteban didn’t flinch, his expression betraying nothing as he shook hands with Alpine’s team principal. “Looking forward to it,” he said smoothly, his tone professional, as if Pierre wasn’t standing right there, staring at him.

“Gasly,” Esteban said finally, turning to him with a polite smile. It was sharp enough to feel like a slap.

“Ocon,” Pierre replied, his voice tight.

They shook hands, the grip firm but cold. Pierre couldn’t stop himself from looking for cracks in Esteban’s carefully composed façade. There were none. The man in front of him wasn’t the boy Pierre had known—his childhood best friend, his karting partner, the one he’d competed with and against for everything. This Esteban was polished, distant, untouchable.

--

The tension between them was impossible to ignore, though Esteban acted like nothing was out of the ordinary.

“I’ll be in touch with your PR team tomorrow,” Esteban told Pierre after their first meeting, his tone clipped, professional. “I’ll need a detailed schedule and—”

“You’re really going to do this?” Pierre interrupted, his voice low.

Esteban raised an eyebrow. “Do what?”

“Act like we don’t have... history,” Pierre said, his jaw tightening.

Esteban’s expression didn’t change. “We’re professionals, Gasly. That’s all that matters.”

Pierre tried not to let it get to him. He was a driver, after all. His focus was on the car, the track, the next race. But Esteban’s presence was a constant reminder of everything they’d been—and everything they’d lost.

They hadn’t spoken in years, not since their friendship had disintegrated into rivalry. Pierre had gone on to F1, and Esteban... Esteban had disappeared, only to resurface as a rising star in the world of management.

“Never thought you’d end up here,” Pierre said one evening, cornering Esteban after a team briefing.

“And where’s ‘here,’ exactly?” Esteban asked, his voice calm but his eyes hard.

“Managing me,” Pierre said. “After everything.”

Esteban’s lips twitched into something that might have been a smirk. “Trust me, Gasly, I didn’t ask for this. But I’m here to do a job, and I’ll do it well. What you think about it doesn’t matter.”

--

Esteban buried himself in work. It was what he did best—organize, strategize, keep things moving. He worked late into the night, assembling Pierre’s media schedule, reviewing footage from past races, and liaising with Alpine’s engineers. Every meeting with Pierre was curt and professional.

There were moments when the awkwardness was almost tangible, like the way Pierre hesitated before signing off on a document or how Esteban carefully avoided making eye contact for too long. But they both kept their distance, unwilling—or unable—to confront what lingered between them.

The paddock wasn’t kind to sentimentality, and Esteban had learned long ago how to suppress his own.

--

By the end of the week, Esteban had just started to find a rhythm. Then Charles Leclerc showed up.

Esteban saw him first, striding down the corridor toward Alpine’s hospitality suite. Charles looked the same as always—bright-eyed and effortlessly charming, his Ferrari-red uniform a stark contrast to the muted blue of Alpine. His smile widened when his gaze landed on Esteban.

“Estie!” Charles exclaimed, his voice cutting through the noise.

Esteban blinked. No one had called him that in years—not since karting days, when Charles, Pierre, and Esteban were inseparable.

Charles didn’t hesitate, pulling Esteban into a quick, warm hug before stepping back. “It’s so good to see you again!”

Esteban froze for a moment, unsure of how to respond. The kindness in Charles’s voice, the familiarity of his nickname—it stirred something he thought he’d buried.

“Leclerc,” he said finally, his tone neutral.

Charles rolled his eyes, unimpressed. “Don’t give me that. We’re not strangers.”

“I’m surprised you remember,” Esteban replied, a touch of bitterness slipping through before he could stop it.

Charles frowned, his smile fading slightly. “Of course, I remember. You, me, and Pierre—we were a team once.”

“That was a long time ago,” Esteban said quietly, glancing away.

“Doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten,” Charles replied, his voice softer now. “I always wondered what happened to you.”

Esteban opened his mouth to respond, but Pierre appeared then, stepping into the suite and interrupting the moment. His gaze flicked between them, his expression unreadable.

“Am I interrupting something?” Pierre asked, his tone casual but sharp enough to cut.

Charles turned to him, his smile returning. “Just catching up with Estie.”

Pierre’s jaw tightened ever so slightly. “Is that what we’re calling him now?”

Charles raised an eyebrow. “It’s what I’ve always called him.”

Esteban straightened, slipping back into his professional demeanor. “We should get going, Gasly. You’ve got media duties.”

Pierre didn’t move right away. His eyes lingered on Esteban, something unspoken passing between them before he nodded. “Lead the way.”

--

Later, as Esteban reviewed notes in his temporary office, he couldn’t shake the memory of Charles’s words.

I always wondered what happened to you.

It wasn’t like anyone else had asked. He knew Pierre never had, even after they’d drifted apart. And maybe that hurt more than he cared to admit.

Charles had always been the heart of their trio—the glue that held them together when competition and ambition threatened to tear them apart. And even now, years later, he still had a way of making Esteban feel like the kid he used to be: hopeful, determined, unbroken.

For the first time in years, Esteban allowed himself a moment of relief. Maybe he hadn’t completely disappeared from their lives after all.

--

The night was quiet, the Alpine paddock deserted except for a few staff tidying up after the day’s chaos. Charles and Pierre sat in a corner of the hospitality suite, away from prying eyes and listening ears. A bottle of wine sat between them, half-empty, their glasses untouched for the past few minutes.

Pierre stared at the floor, his mind tangled with memories of the past he tried so hard to bury. He hadn’t meant to bring Esteban up, but the mere sight of him—composed and polished—had stirred something. Something complicated.

Charles, always perceptive, broke the silence.

“Esteban’s working with you now, isn’t he?”

Pierre flinched, caught off guard. He swirled the wine in his glass but didn’t drink it. “Yeah,” he said finally, his voice low. “Surprise of the season, huh?”

Charles tilted his head, studying Pierre carefully. “You didn’t know?”

“Of course, I didn’t know.” Pierre let out a humorless laugh. “You think they consulted me before assigning him?”

Charles shrugged. “I thought maybe you two had… patched things up.”

Pierre snorted, shaking his head. “Patched things up? I don’t even know what we are anymore, Charles. Best friends? Rivals? Strangers?”

“You tell me.”

Pierre’s hand tightened around his glass. “We haven’t spoken in years. Not since…” He trailed off, his jaw tightening. “Not since he left.”

Charles hummed softly, leaning back in his chair. “You mean since he didn’t make it to F1 and you did.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken truths. Pierre didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the wine swirling in his glass.

“You still care about him, don’t you?” Charles asked, his tone gentle but direct.

Pierre’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing. “What are you talking about?”

Charles gave him a knowing look, the kind only someone who’d grown up alongside him could pull off. “Come on, Pierre. You’ve been on edge all week. You keep glancing at him during meetings, avoiding him after. And when I mentioned him earlier, you didn’t even deny it.”

Pierre opened his mouth to argue, but the words wouldn’t come. He hated how easily Charles could see through him, how he always seemed to know what Pierre was feeling before Pierre himself did.

“It’s complicated,” Pierre said finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

Charles leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “You used to be inseparable. You, me, and Esteban—always together, always looking out for each other. What happened?”

“Rivalry happened,” Pierre muttered. “We were kids, Charles. Kids who wanted the same thing. And when I got it, and he didn’t…” He trailed off, his throat tightening. “We stopped talking. I didn’t know how to face him, and he didn’t want to be around me.”

Charles nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. “And now he’s back in your life, whether you like it or not.”

Pierre let out a shaky breath, running a hand through his hair. “He’s different now. He’s… cold. Professional. Like he’s built this wall around himself, and I don’t know how to get past it.”

“Maybe he’s protecting himself,” Charles suggested. “From you, from the sport, from everything that hurt him.”

Pierre looked away, his chest tightening. He hated how much sense that made.

“You still care,” Charles said again, softer this time. “Admit it.”

Pierre didn’t answer, but the silence was enough. Charles smiled faintly, leaning back in his chair.

“Maybe it’s time to stop being rivals,” he said. “And start being friends again.”

Pierre let out a bitter laugh. “You make it sound so easy.”

“It’s not,” Charles admitted. “But if anyone can figure it out, it’s you two.”

Pierre didn’t respond, but deep down, he knew Charles was right.

The weeks turned into months, and the dynamic between Esteban and Pierre remained frustratingly professional. Their work together at Alpine HQ was smooth, efficient, and seamless. Pierre was delivering consistent results on track, and Esteban’s reputation as a sharp, effective manager only grew.

But despite their outward success, there was no warmth between them. Their conversations rarely strayed beyond racing strategies or PR obligations, and the unspoken tension between them hung like a heavy curtain.

It wasn’t until a quiet evening at Alpine’s headquarters in Enstone that something unexpected happened.

Esteban was sitting in his office, a neat, minimalist space filled with the hum of his computer. The long hours were nothing new to him; they kept his mind occupied and his emotions at bay. He was reviewing Pierre’s schedule for the upcoming week when the door opened without a knock.

Pierre stepped in, dressed casually in a hoodie and jeans, his usual confident demeanor intact. Without saying a word, he placed a small bag on Esteban’s desk.

Esteban glanced up, surprised. “What’s this?”

Pierre shrugged, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed. “Just take it.”

Frowning, Esteban set his laptop aside and opened the bag. Inside was a brightly colored wrapper, unmistakable even after all these years. His breath caught.

The candy.

It was the same candy Pierre had always shared with him when they were kids—back when Esteban couldn’t afford luxuries like this, living out of a leaking caravan with his family. Pierre had never made a big deal of it, always slipping him a piece with a grin as if it were nothing.

“Why are you giving me this?” Esteban asked, his voice carefully neutral.

Pierre’s smirk softened into something more genuine, almost hesitant. “Saw it at a shop the other day. Thought of you.”

Esteban stared at the candy, his chest tightening with a mix of nostalgia and something heavier. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know,” Pierre said quietly. “But I wanted to.”

The silence between them stretched, thick with unspoken words.

“Do you remember?” Pierre asked, his voice softer now. “How much you loved those? You’d always save them, make them last as long as possible.”

Esteban’s lips twitched into a faint smile, though he kept his gaze on the wrapper. “Yeah, I remember.”

Pierre took a step closer, his tone gentle. “You don’t have to act like we’re strangers, Ocon. Not here. Not with me.”

Esteban’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing. “What are you talking about?”

Pierre sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “This whole... thing. Acting like we don’t know each other when we used to be—” He cut himself off, his expression tightening. “Look, I know things went wrong between us. But that doesn’t mean I don’t care.”

Esteban clenched his jaw, his eyes dropping back to the candy. “We’re professionals, Gasly. That’s all that matters.”

“You really believe that?” Pierre asked, his voice low, almost sad. “That it’s all just about the job?”

Esteban didn’t answer. The candy in his hand felt heavier than it should have, the memories it carried weighing down on him.

Finally, he unwrapped it and popped it into his mouth. The familiar sweetness hit him instantly, the taste unchanged after all these years. For a moment, he closed his eyes, letting himself savor the memory.

“Still good?” Pierre asked, his voice lighter now.

“Still good,” Esteban admitted quietly, a small, genuine smile tugging at his lips.

For the first time in years, the tension between them seemed to ease, just a little. And as Pierre turned to leave, he hesitated at the door. “You’re not as hard to figure out as you think, Esteban,” he said softly before disappearing down the hall.

Esteban sat in his quiet office, the candy melting on his tongue. And for the first time in a long while, the ache in his chest didn’t feel quite so unbearable. Wait, did he said Estaben?

The dynamic between Esteban and Pierre shifted in subtle, almost imperceptible ways over the following weeks. They still called each other "Ocon" and "Gasly," but there was a softness to their interactions now, a lingering in their conversations that hadn't been there before.

Esteban noticed it most in the way Pierre looked at him—how his eyes lingered a little too long during meetings, how his gaze softened when he thought Esteban wasn’t paying attention. It made Esteban’s chest tighten, though he told himself it was nothing.

It wasn’t nothing.

He caught himself looking back just as often, his professional mask slipping more and more with every shared glance. There was something in Pierre’s expression that felt familiar yet foreign, a warmth Esteban hadn’t dared to hope for in years. Longing, maybe? Or was that just wishful thinking?

--

It was during a particularly chaotic weekend at the Austrian Grand Prix that things took another unexpected turn. Esteban had just finished coordinating media obligations for Pierre and was taking a rare moment to breathe in the Alpine hospitality suite when Charles Leclerc walked in, all effortless charm and boyish smiles.

“Estie!” Charles greeted, his voice warm as ever, the nickname slipping out as easily as it had years ago.

Esteban stiffened, glancing around to see if anyone had overheard. Charles didn’t care—he never had—and it was one of the reasons Esteban had always liked him, even if his openness could be overwhelming.

“Charles,” Esteban said, nodding politely.

“I was looking for you,” Charles said, ignoring the stiff formality. He leaned casually against the table, glancing over at Pierre, who was talking to some engineers a few feet away. “We’re flying back to Monaco tonight on my jet. You should join us.”

Esteban blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“My jet,” Charles repeated, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “You and Pierre can come. There’s plenty of space.”

Esteban hesitated, his mind racing. For months, he’d taken regular commercial flights after races, returning to his modest routine while Pierre occasionally joined Charles on his private jet. The two of them had always been close, their friendship easy and unshakable in a way Esteban could never quite relate to.

“I don’t know...” Esteban began, but Charles cut him off with a laugh.

“Oh, come on, Estie. It’s about time you joined us. You work too hard. Besides, I already told Pierre, and he didn’t object.”

Esteban glanced over at Pierre, who had finished his conversation and was now walking toward them. His expression was unreadable, but when Charles brought up the jet again, Pierre simply shrugged. “It’s up to you, Ocon.”

The way Pierre said it—calm, almost indifferent—grated on Esteban’s nerves. But there was something else in his tone, something subtle, like he was daring Esteban to say yes.

“Fine,” Esteban said before he could overthink it.

Charles beamed, clapping him on the back. “That’s the spirit!”

--

The flight back to Monaco was calm at first, the soft hum of the engines filling the luxurious cabin. Esteban sat by the window, his eyes fixed on the darkening sky, while Charles and Pierre exchanged light banter across the aisle. It was peaceful—too peaceful.

“Do you remember that karting race in Lyon?” Charles asked suddenly, leaning forward with a mischievous grin. “The one where you crashed into me?”

Pierre groaned, running a hand through his hair. “You always bring that up! It wasn’t my fault—you cut the corner!”

“I won that race, didn’t I?” Charles shot back, his tone smug.

“Barely.”

Esteban couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at his lips. For months, he had observed them from a distance—behind glass walls in Alpine HQ, in the paddock, during debriefs. They always seemed so natural together, their banter easy and familiar. Now, up close, it was even more intense.

“You were so smug that day,” Pierre added, pointing at Charles. “You couldn’t stop talking about it for weeks.”

Charles laughed, a genuine, infectious sound that made Esteban’s chest ache. “Because I beat both of you. Admit it, Ocon, you were pissed.”

Esteban blinked, startled to be brought into the conversation. He glanced at Charles, whose smile was warm and teasing.

“I was annoyed,” Esteban admitted. “But only because you wouldn’t shut up about it.”

“See?” Pierre said, gesturing to Esteban like he’d just proved a point. “He gets it!”

Charles grinned, his eyes sparkling. “And yet, you still came back the next weekend, ready to lose again.”

“Bold words,” Esteban shot back, surprising even himself with the sharpness in his tone.

Pierre laughed, low and genuine, and something in Esteban’s chest twisted. He looked away, trying to steady himself, but then Charles leaned closer, his elbow brushing against Esteban’s arm.

The three of them fell into a rhythm, their conversation flowing naturally for the first time in years. Esteban was cautious at first, unsure of where he fit between them, but Pierre and Charles were persistent, pulling him into their memories, their jokes, their world.

And that’s when it hit him.

It wasn’t just the way they spoke to each other, the easy back-and-forth that came from years of familiarity. It was the way they looked at each other—Pierre’s gaze softening when Charles laughed, the subtle brush of Charles’s hand against Pierre’s arm as he made a point. It was in the way they existed together, a quiet intimacy that Esteban had tried not to notice for months.

But now he couldn’t ignore it.

Oh, Esteban thought, his stomach sinking.

Oh, no.

He shifted in his seat, suddenly hyper-aware of everything. Of Charles’s arm still resting against his. Of the way Pierre’s gaze flicked to him every so often, like he was checking to make sure Esteban was still part of the conversation.

Oh, no.

It wasn’t just them. It was him, too.

He’d caught himself staring before, watching them through the glass walls of the paddock, wondering what it would feel like to step into their world. He’d told himself it was just envy—that he missed the camaraderie, the closeness they used to share. But now, with Charles laughing beside him and Pierre’s eyes lingering on his, Esteban felt the weight of something far more complicated.

Oh, shit.

The realization hit him like a freight train. He had feelings for them. Both of them.

Esteban swallowed hard, his throat dry. He forced himself to focus on the conversation, but his mind was racing. How long had this been building? How had he not noticed?

“And what about you, Estie?” Charles asked suddenly, pulling him out of his spiraling thoughts.

Esteban blinked, his heart pounding. “What?”

“What was your favorite karting memory?” Charles asked, tilting his head. His smile was soft now, more curious than teasing.

Esteban hesitated, glancing between them. Pierre’s expression was unreadable, but there was a quiet intensity in his gaze that made Esteban’s pulse quicken.

“I don’t know,” Esteban said finally, his voice quieter than he intended. “Probably the time I managed to beat both of you.”

Pierre snorted. “That happened once.”

“And I made sure to savor it,” Esteban shot back, his lips twitching despite himself.

Charles laughed, and for a moment, the tension in Esteban’s chest eased. But as the conversation continued, he couldn’t stop himself from noticing the way his heart ached every time they looked at each other—or at him.

--

At some point, Charles got up to grab a drink, leaving Esteban and Pierre alone.

“Comfortable?” Pierre asked, his voice low.

Esteban glanced at him, surprised. “It’s fine.”

Pierre’s lips twitched, but he didn’t press. Instead, he leaned back in his seat, his eyes lingering on Esteban a little too long.

Esteban looked away, his heart pounding. What was he supposed to do with that? With Pierre looking at him like... like he mattered?

“Thanks for coming,” Pierre said suddenly, his tone softer.

Esteban frowned, turning back to him. “Why are you thanking me? It was Charles who invited me.”

Pierre shrugged, his gaze steady. “Yeah, but you didn’t have to say yes.”

Esteban opened his mouth to respond, but Charles returned, plopping down at his seat and breaking the moment.

As the jet continued its journey, Esteban couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted again—something he wasn’t sure he was ready for. But as Pierre’s, and now Charles's gaze met his across the cabin, that unspoken warmth still there, Esteban wondered if he was already in too deep to stop it.

By the time the jet landed in Monaco, Esteban felt like he was coming apart at the seams. Whatever this was—this tangled mess of old friendships, rivalry, and newfound feelings—it was going to destroy him.

--

The days after the flight were brutal. Esteban tried to convince himself he was overreacting, that this was just a passing phase of misguided longing. But every time he saw Pierre and Charles together, laughing in a way that felt too intimate, too familiar, the knot in his chest tightened.

And then he saw it—confirmation, the thing he had tried to avoid acknowledging.

It was a quiet moment in the Alpine hospitality, long after most of the team had gone home for the night. Esteban had returned to grab a document he’d forgotten, only to pause when he saw them through the glass wall of Pierre’s office.

Charles was leaning against Pierre’s desk, his arms crossed, a soft smile on his face as Pierre spoke. The air between them was charged in a way that wasn’t platonic, their body language closer, more comfortable than friends typically allowed. And then, just as Esteban told himself to look away, Charles reached out, brushing a hand against Pierre’s cheek, and Pierre leaned into the touch.

Oh, they’re together.

The realization hit him harder than he expected, an ache settling deep in his chest. Of course, they were together. It made sense. They fit. They understood each other in ways Esteban would never fully grasp.

He turned and walked away before they could notice him, the tightness in his chest growing heavier with every step.

--

The following weeks were hell. Esteban threw himself into his work, keeping interactions with Pierre as brief and professional as possible. He stopped lingering in Alpine’s hospitality and made excuses to avoid any gatherings where Charles might be present. It was easier to stay away, easier to keep his feelings locked up tight where they couldn’t hurt anyone.

But Pierre noticed.

“Ocon, you’ve been avoiding me,” Pierre said one afternoon, cornering him after a debrief.

“I’ve been busy,” Esteban replied curtly, not meeting his eyes.

Pierre frowned, crossing his arms. “Too busy to even grab a coffee? We used to talk, you know. What’s going on?”

Esteban clenched his jaw, keeping his gaze firmly on the floor. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t let Pierre see the cracks in his armor.

“Nothing’s going on,” he said stiffly. “I’m here to do a job, Gasly. That’s all.”

Pierre’s eyes narrowed, the frustration evident on his face, but he didn’t press further. Esteban left before he could say something he’d regret.

The worst part wasn’t the avoidance or the guilt; it was the way his feelings refused to go away, no matter how hard he tried to bury them. Every time he saw Pierre smile, every time Charles laughed, every time they stood too close, the ache in his chest grew sharper.

He felt like a homewrecker, even though he’d done nothing to act on his feelings. Just the knowledge that he felt this way was enough to make him hate himself.

And yet, despite everything, he couldn’t bring himself to fully pull away. Some part of him still craved their presence, still wanted to be part of their world, even if it meant tearing himself apart from the inside out.

--

One night, after another long day at the paddock, Esteban found himself sitting alone in his hotel room, staring at the ceiling. The thoughts he’d been avoiding all day came rushing in, hitting him like a tidal wave.

You’re ruining this.

You’re going to destroy what they have.

They’re happy. You don’t belong in this.

He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, trying to block out the spiral. He needed to get over this. He needed to move on.

But how could he, when every interaction with them—every stolen glance, every accidental brush of hands—only made his feelings stronger?

--

The weeks after the realization were suffocating. Esteban’s attempts to distance himself were starting to feel like living in a glass box—he could see them, but they were untouchable, unreachable. Every time Pierre looked at him, it was with an unspoken question, but Esteban couldn’t meet his gaze. Every time Charles smiled at him, it felt like a dagger wrapped in warmth.

He couldn’t stand it. The tension had thickened between them like an unspoken barrier, and Esteban had built walls around himself that even he couldn’t break down. It wasn’t just avoidance anymore; it was an inability to be in the same space without feeling like he was suffocating. He couldn’t look at Pierre without remembering their shared past, the way they’d been inseparable—until they weren’t. He couldn’t look at Charles without knowing that the warmth he once felt for him was now something unrecognizable, a twisted version of what used to be friendship.

His life felt like a delicate balance between duty and overwhelming pain. He tried to focus on work, but his mind would inevitably wander to the same thoughts, the same unanswered questions. Could he keep going like this? Could he really continue managing Pierre, knowing how deeply he cared? Could he continue watching the dynamic between the two of them, knowing that he was now the outsider?

As the summer break rolled around, Esteban couldn't help but feel like he could finally exhale. The constant tension that had plagued him for months seemed to lift with the final race before the break. The distant walls he’d put up between himself, Pierre, and Charles felt almost suffocating at times. But now, he had a rare opportunity to escape. The relentless pressure, the unspoken words, the weight of emotions he'd been avoiding—it all seemed to fade as soon as the words "summer break" were uttered.

For the first time in months, Esteban felt free. He was finally going home. Back to the place where everything felt simpler. He’d booked a flight using his Air France star points, splurging on a business class seat, a luxury he rarely allowed himself. He needed the space, the comfort, and the time to think.

The hum of the plane, the smooth motion as they soared above the clouds, was a welcome relief. Esteban leaned back in his seat, eyes closed, letting the cool air of the cabin wash over him. He'd be home soon, surrounded by familiar faces, by his family. A place where no one expected him to be anyone other than Esteban—no complex relationships, no overwhelming dynamics to navigate. For once, he could just be.

--

Little did he know that the demons of his life—Pierre and Charles—weren’t done with him.

--

Two days had passed since Esteban had arrived back home, and the familiar scent of his childhood home, the sound of the ticking clock in the living room, and the quiet hum of his parents' house felt like a much-needed breath of fresh air. His parents were still away for work, so he had the entire place to himself. For the first time in months, Esteban allowed himself to relax, truly unwind. The pressure of the season had lifted, and for now, he was just Esteban—no racing, no drama, no complicated relationships.

That is, until the bell at the door rang.

Esteban jolted, his body frozen in the middle of a bite from his breakfast cereal. He hadn’t expected visitors. Not today. He had expected the quiet of his hometown, where he could sleep in late and not worry about anyone showing up unannounced. He wasn’t expecting to see anyone, especially not Pierre and Charles. Not in this quiet little town where everyone knew everyone, and he wore his panda pajamas for the first time in months—those soft, fuzzy, ridiculous pajamas his mom bought him when he was a kid. They were so embarrassing that only his parents ever saw him in them, but today, Esteban didn’t care. They were comfortable, and he needed that comfort more than anything.

As he stood up, the doorbell rang again, and he cursed under his breath. He could hear the faint voices outside, and before he could even prepare himself, he heard footsteps approaching the door.

He quickly threw down his spoon, still in disbelief at the situation, before looking around the kitchen, trying to figure out what to do. But there was nothing he could do. His heart sank.

He quickly padded to the front door in his panda pajamas, knowing full well who stood on the other side. His gut twisted. There was no way. His attempt at isolation was over, and in the most inner Esteban way possible, it was his childhood pajamas that would be his undoing.

Taking a deep breath, he swung the door open.

And there they were.

Pierre stood there, looking as casual as always, but there was something different in the way his eyes narrowed at Esteban’s appearance. Charles, on the other hand, had a grin that spoke volumes. It was that grin. The one Esteban used to see every time they both cornered him into a conversation about things they never fully said out loud.

Esteban felt like he was about to combust from the sheer awkwardness of the moment, his cheeks burning, his mind scrambling for something to say.

--

Pierre stood at the door, his hand still resting lightly on the handle. He had expected many things when he arrived in Esteban's hometown—he hadn’t expected to be greeted by this.

Esteban opened the door, looking somewhat disheveled, but what caught Pierre off guard was the sight of him standing there in panda pajamas. The fuzzy black-and-white onesie, complete with little ears and a tail, was the kind of thing Esteban would only ever wear when he thought no one would see him. And apparently, he was right—no one was supposed to see him dressed like that.

Pierre blinked, his mind briefly short-circuiting as he stared at his manager in total disbelief. He’d always known Esteban was a bit of a dork, but this? This was something else entirely.

His lips twitched, fighting against the grin that was threatening to break free. His first instinct was to tease Esteban, but he couldn't help but let out a soft laugh before quickly catching himself.

“Well, that’s... a look,” Pierre finally said, raising an eyebrow with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Nice pajamas, Ocon.”

Esteban, clearly embarrassed, shifted awkwardly, his cheeks flushing. "I—uh, it's just for at home," he muttered, clearly uncomfortable under the weight of Pierre’s gaze. "Not for public consumption."

Charles, standing beside Pierre, let out a quiet chuckle, clearly enjoying the situation. "Should’ve known."

Pierre couldn’t hold it in any longer. He chuckled fully, his eyes sparkling with amusement. Esteban just stood there, mortified, tugging at the sleeves of the onesie as though he could make it disappear. Pierre couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Esteban look so utterly flustered, and honestly, it was adorable.

But as much as he wanted to tease Esteban more, something in his expression changed. There was a tension behind those wide eyes, something deeper than just embarrassment. Pierre took a step forward, feeling that familiar weight settle in his chest. They weren’t just here to poke fun at Esteban’s pajamas. This was something else.

Pierre sobered up, his playful grin softening as he met Esteban’s gaze, still standing there in the doorway. "We came to talk, Esteban," he said, his voice quieter now, his usual teasing edge replaced with something a little more serious.

Esteban blinked at him, clearly thrown off by the sudden change in tone. "What do you want, Gasly?"

But Pierre didn’t break eye contact, sensing the walls Esteban had put up. "About you," he said simply. "About everything."

Charles, meanwhile, leaned casually against the doorframe, his grin more subdued now. “We’ve been patient, Estie, but you’ve been avoiding us long enough.”

Pierre could tell that Esteban was trying to keep it together, but the way his shoulders slumped ever so slightly, the way his gaze flickered nervously, told Pierre all he needed to know. They had pushed him too far, and now there was no turning back.

“You’re not getting away from this,” Pierre added softly, his voice almost too gentle.

Esteban’s face tightened. Pierre couldn’t tell if it was frustration, guilt, or something else entirely, but it was there—clear as day. And in that moment, Pierre realized that all the time they’d spent together, all the moments they’d shared, had led to this. To this conversation, in the doorway of Esteban’s childhood home, with the most ridiculous, adorable pajamas on display for both of them to see.

Pierre didn’t want to be the one to break Esteban, but he knew they couldn’t go on pretending anymore. Not after everything they’d been through. Not after everything that had been left unsaid.

Finally, Esteban sighed, his posture sagging, as if he’d given up on fighting it. He stepped back, letting them inside. "Fine," he muttered. "Come in, then. But you better not make fun of my pajamas."

Pierre and Charles exchanged a quick look, both holding back grins at the same time, and then stepped inside, closing the door behind them. The tension still hung in the air, thick and heavy, but it was clear now: the conversation had started, and there was no going back.

--

Esteban stood in the kitchen, the kettle whistling softly as he poured the hot water into the teapot. He could hear the quiet shuffle of footsteps behind him, the sound of Pierre’s voice low and soft as he explored the house, and Charles’ occasional laughter as he flipped through an old album.

He stole a glance at the rearview mirror in his home (don’t ask why it is in the house), his gaze unintentionally drifting to the living room. He saw Pierre standing in front of a photo on the wall, one that featured the three of them, years ago—young, naive, and full of promise. A picture from before everything fell apart. Before he lost everything that mattered, before he became a shadow of the person he once was.

He watched Pierre’s fingers hover over the frame, almost as if he was tracing the contours of their past with his eyes. The picture had always been a reminder of how far they had come, of how much had changed, but now it felt like a dagger to Esteban’s heart. It wasn’t the first time Pierre had seen this photo, but it was the first time in this home—the one they had never visited, the one that had come after everything.

Esteban closed his eyes, letting out a deep sigh. How long had it been since they all last spoke in home? Years? He couldn’t even remember anymore. The whole thing—the crash, the collapse of his career, the split from everything—had become a blur. And now, here they were, standing in his new home, a far cry from the days when they’d been inseparable, when everything had seemed possible.

His parents were away, working like they always were, and Esteban couldn’t help but feel a bit lost. He needed them right now, more than ever. But instead, he was left alone with his thoughts, with Pierre and Charles in the next room. And he couldn't shake the feeling that they were about to turn his world upside down.

As he busied himself with making tea, his mind raced. He wanted this to be a quiet, easy evening. A simple summer break where he could curl up on the couch, binge-watch Netflix, and forget about everything for a while. But instead, he was about to confront the wreckage of his past, the things he had avoided for so long.

His hands shook slightly as he poured the tea, trying to keep himself calm. God, he wasn’t ready for this. Not yet. He just wanted to bury his head in the sand, but he knew that wasn’t going to work. They were here for a reason. They had come to settle things, to talk about everything they had avoided.

Finally, he walked back into the living room, setting the tray of tea down on the table. Pierre and Charles were both sitting on the couch now, looking at him with quiet, expectant gazes. They were so calm, so collected, and it made Esteban feel even more nervous. He took his seat, his eyes darting nervously between them, before finally settling on Pierre.

“Tea,” Esteban muttered, his voice soft, as he sat down. “It’s not much, but it’s... it’s something.”

Pierre’s gaze softened as he accepted the cup, but Esteban could see the concern lingering in his eyes. There was something different about him now—something that made Esteban feel small and vulnerable. He had been through so much, and yet, Pierre was here, looking at him like he still mattered.

“So,” Charles started, breaking the silence. “We’ve... been thinking about you a lot, Esteban. You know that, right?”

Esteban swallowed hard, his throat dry. He nodded, but he couldn’t bring himself to say anything. He wasn’t sure he could.

“You’ve been kind of... absent, you know?” Pierre continued, his voice gentle but firm. “Not just in work, but in our lives. We’ve missed you.”

Esteban bit his lip, his heart racing in his chest. The words they were saying were sinking in slowly, but he couldn’t let himself believe them. Not yet. He was afraid to.

“We didn’t just know you as a manager,” Pierre said, his voice growing softer, more vulnerable. “We knew you more than that. You were always there for us.”

Esteban felt his chest tighten, the words slicing through him like a blade. The lump in his throat grew bigger, and he felt like he couldn’t breathe. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be happening. He was just Esteban Ocon, the guy who had been left behind. The guy who had nothing.

“We tried to make it right,” Charles said, his voice full of guilt. “We wanted to... we wanted to be with you again, back in our lives. We couldn’t... we couldn’t just leave it like this.”

Pierre nodded, his eyes intense and full of something Esteban couldn’t quite name. “We even thought about going to Mercedes, just for you. We didn’t care about anything. We just wanted to see you again.”

Esteban’s heart stopped. Mercedes. He had been so far removed from everything that he hadn’t even realized that they had thought of him like that. They had come so close, and yet... And yet they were still here. Still, somehow, a part of his life.

“You became a manager, Esteban,” Pierre continued, his voice now tinged with warmth. “And when we found out you were working with me, it was like... like everything came full circle. We wanted you back in our lives, not just as a manager, but as... as... As someone we care about.”

Esteban could feel the tears starting to well up in his eyes, his face flushing as he struggled to keep himself together. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Not like this. He hadn’t expected any of this, especially not from Pierre and Charles. But there they were, telling him that they still cared.

That they missed him.

Esteban’s chest tightened as the tears continued to flow, his heart racing with the overwhelming flood of emotions. He could feel Pierre and Charles surrounding him, their arms comforting, their presence grounding him, but there was an unspoken tension that lingered in the room—one that made his throat constrict even more.

As Pierre’s hand gently rubbed his back, Esteban felt a strange heat in his chest, a mix of longing, guilt, and confusion. The warmth of their embrace felt too familiar, yet too foreign all at once. His mind was racing—too many thoughts were fighting for attention. His feelings for both of them, for what they had shared, for the spaces they once occupied in his life—it was all so much to process.

“I—” Esteban’s voice cracked as he pulled away slightly, wiping his eyes, still not trusting himself to meet their gazes directly. “I didn’t think... I didn’t know you two were—”

Pierre’s hand, still resting on his back, paused for a moment before he spoke softly, his tone steady but tender. “We’re together, Esteban. We’ve been together for a while now.”

Esteban’s heart skipped a beat, and the weight of their words hit him like a ton of bricks. He’d suspected something had been different between Pierre and Charles, especially lately—something had shifted in their dynamic. But hearing it, hearing it confirmed out loud, left him momentarily breathless. His stomach churned with a mixture of disbelief and something deeper—something he was still too scared to face.

Charles, sensing Esteban’s hesitation, leaned in a little closer, his voice gentle. “We know you’ve been... distant. And we’ve seen the way you look at us, Esteban. The way your gaze lingers when we’re together. We’re not blind.”

Esteban’s face flushed crimson, his mind reeling. He had thought he had been subtle, or at least that his feelings for them had remained unspoken. But clearly, he had been wrong. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his hands trembling slightly as he clutched the edges of his tea cup.

“You don’t have to be scared or hide it, Esteban,” Pierre added quietly, his voice almost a whisper. “We know you have feelings. We know what you’ve been going through. And we... we want you to be with us, too. We want you to be a part of this.”

Esteban’s heart skipped again, and he swallowed hard, trying to process their words. He had always felt a pull toward them—both of them, in different ways—but he had never allowed himself to acknowledge it. He had buried those feelings, buried the longing that he thought could never be reciprocated. But now, sitting there with Pierre and Charles, he realized that maybe he had been wrong.

“But—” Esteban started, struggling to find the right words. “But I don’t... I don’t want to ruin anything. I don’t want to... make things complicated. You two are already together, and I don’t know if... if I could—”

“You wouldn’t ruin anything, Esteban,” Charles interrupted softly, his hand gently brushing against Esteban’s. “We’ve missed you so much. And we care about you—more than just as a friend. We always have. This isn’t about complicating things. It’s about us, together, and wanting you to be a part of it.”

Pierre nodded, his eyes softening. “We want you, Esteban. We want all of you. We always have. Don’t you see? It’s not just about us being a couple. It’s about us, the three of us. The bond we had. The one we’ve always shared. It’s still there. And we want to bring you back into that. We’re ready if you are.”

Esteban’s heart raced, a sudden wave of dizziness sweeping over him. He hadn’t expected this. He hadn’t expected them to want him, to want this. The idea of being with Pierre and Charles, the men he had spent years with, the men who had become his family despite everything that had happened... it was almost too much to process.

He stared down at his hands, still trembling. His mind felt foggy, his thoughts swirling. He couldn’t tell if he was dreaming, or if this was real. But in the pit of his stomach, he knew that this was more than just an offer to be close again—it was an invitation. An invitation to love, to trust, to share something deeper than just a friendship.

“I—” Esteban’s voice faltered. “I don’t know what to say... I never thought this... I never thought you would—”

“We are saying it,” Pierre interrupted gently, his thumb brushing Esteban’s knuckles. “We want you, Esteban. We’ve always wanted you.”

And just like that, the walls Esteban had carefully constructed around his heart seemed to crumble. His tears, which had started as a quiet flow, began to pour out again, this time with a sense of release. It wasn’t just the weight of his fears anymore—it was the weight of everything he had held back, everything he had kept from them.

The love they spoke of, the love they shared, was so much bigger than he had imagined. It was a love that wasn’t confined by the boundaries of their past, by the pain or the distance. It was a love that could embrace all three of them, if they let it.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Esteban allowed himself to believe it. To believe that maybe, just maybe, they weren’t too far gone. That the three of them—Pierre, Charles, and Esteban—could find a way back to each other. That they could rebuild what had been broken and make something even more beautiful from it.

As Esteban finally nodded, allowing himself to believe in the possibility of something more, Pierre and Charles both reached out, their hands hovering for a moment as if unsure. The air between them was heavy with unspoken words, but there was a softness now, a tentative understanding. Then, without another word, they both moved in, their arms wrapping around Esteban in a tight, almost protective hug.

Esteban, still unsure whether this was real, melted into the embrace. His heart raced, but in a way that felt comforting, not anxious. He was squeezed gently between the two athletes, their bodies solid and warm, contrasting sharply with his own smaller frame. His panda onesie, the one he had worn for years to seek comfort, suddenly felt even more absurd, but also oddly perfect in the moment. It was soft, worn, and innocent—a stark contrast to the rough callouses of Pierre and Charles' hands. The feeling of their hands pressing against the fabric, the roughness of their skin against the softness of the onesie, made him feel vulnerable in a way that was strangely reassuring.

As they pulled him into the hug, Esteban felt how small he was in comparison to them. Pierre’s broad chest and Charles’ muscular frame dwarfed him. He felt the difference in their heights, the way his own thin neck seemed to disappear between the two, his body feeling smaller, almost fragile between their strength. Pierre’s head rested just above his, the heat from his body radiating into Esteban’s, while Charles’ chin was nearly on top of Esteban’s head. Their bodies framed his, and in that space, Esteban felt like he was both insignificant and the most important person in the world at the same time.

He tried to bury his face into the softness of Pierre’s shoulder, but even then, he could feel the contrast between his thin neck and the solid muscle of Pierre’s, and then the roughness of Charles' collarbone against his cheek. The physical distance that had once felt so insurmountable now felt like a comfortable, solid presence, as if they had closed the gap that had stretched between them for years.

"Esteban," Pierre murmured, his voice muffled but tender as his hand gently cupped the back of Esteban’s head. "You’re not alone anymore."

Charles, his voice soft but steady, added, "We’re here. All of us. Together."

Esteban closed his eyes, letting their warmth seep into him, the once-hidden fears slowly starting to dissipate in the embrace. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, he allowed himself to feel cared for, loved, and maybe—just maybe—he felt like he finally belonged.

His voice cracked as he spoke, barely above a whisper. "I never thought I could have this again... not after everything."

Pierre squeezed him tighter, his other hand brushing lightly against Esteban’s back in reassurance. "We’ve always had this, Esteban. We just didn’t know how to see it."

And for that moment, with the soft warmth of the hug enveloping him, Esteban allowed himself to believe in it—the love, the possibility, the future they could share. Even as the weight of the past hung heavy in his chest, the three of them, standing together in his small, humble home, felt like the beginning of something new.

The contrast between Esteban’s smaller, slender frame and their sturdy, muscular bodies felt strangely fitting. As they stood there, wrapped in each other’s arms, the bond that had always been there between them seemed stronger than ever before. In the safety of this moment, the outside world seemed so far away, and all that mattered was the connection between the three of them.

For the first time in a long while, Esteban didn’t feel like he was running away from anything anymore. He was finally home.